


your memory is here and I'd like it to stay

by thatsparrow



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27646294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: Richie laughs a little. "Yeah. I'm pretty sure you just figured out what, like, ten years of therapists never could. Then again, I guess it helps when you can pinpoint the murder clown as the root of your psychological trauma instead of assuming it's internalized homophobia. Not that the internalized homophobia wasn't part of it, but, uh—""The murder clown explains a lot.""The murder clown does fill in some blank spaces."
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 80





	your memory is here and I'd like it to stay

**Author's Note:**

> title from "pink bullets" by the shins

"I'm thinking about getting a house in Derry."

"Fuck off, dude."

"What? I'm serious."

Richie isn't, actually—you'd have to literally _pay_ him to move back to Derry, and with one of those big novelty checks, too, because a regular one wouldn't have enough room for all the zeros—but he likes the way Eddie looks when he can't tell if he's being fucked with, brow furrowed and lips pressed together in a crooked line. It's cute. Makes him look all rumpled like Richie imagines he'd be in the mornings, half-frowning in that funny, disarmed sort of way.

"Why in the actual _fuck_ would you want do something like that?" Eddie asks, glancing away to portion out pain meds from a prescription bottle into his palm. "Haven't you relived enough childhood trauma for one lifetime, or is your next stand-up special all about realizing that you're a masochist?"

"Does masochism apply to psychological pain? That sounds wrong—Google it."

"I'm not going to fucking Google it."

"C'mon, just—"

"No, fuck off—"

"Do you want me to do it? Because I'm driving and that sounds a little reckless." Richie reaches for his phone, mostly teasing (he absolutely does not care enough about the definition of masochism to Google it.) "Are you happy, Eddie? You're encouraging distracted driving. There are after-school specials about this."

Eddie lets Richie get his hand to the touchscreen before he swats it away. "Okay, fuck that, I'm not surviving Pennywise and Bowers and getting fucking _stabbed_ only to get killed in a car wreck. Fine, fuck you, I'll Google it—just watch the road."

Richie does, but it's the same dull-looking stretches of I-495 that he's been staring at for the last hour, taking them past a litany of small white-painted and brick Massachusetts towns as their directions keep them heading towards Worcester. It's already late afternoon, but the GPS thinks they'll make it back to New York before dark—bummer that the GPS or Siri or whomever the fuck else can't tell Richie what happens after that, though. Business as usual? Quiet nights in an empty apartment punctuated by weeks on the road touring? Scrolling idly through his phone to find a one-night stand when he's feeling particularly lonely, or horny, or drunk (or all three)? God, that sounds fucking miserable. See, this is the danger of spending time with assholes like Ben and Mike—they talk a big game about pretty, noble goals like _having ambition_ and _wanting something more_ and next thing Richie knows, he's suckered himself into hunting after the same. He should be too old and too jaded by now to still believe in happy endings.

(He absolutely, definitely, fucking _does not_ glance over at Eddie as he thinks that.)

"Okay, I've got it," Eddie says, pulling up something on his phone. "From Merriam-Webster—"

" _Merriam-Webster_?"

"Yes, Merriam-Webster, shut up. Okay, the definition of masochism: _the derivation of sexual gratification from being subjected to physical pain or humiliation by oneself or another person._ Alright, so I guess it does have to be physical—"

"Can't believe you just looked that up in fucking _Merriam-Webster._ "

"—unless you're talking about humiliation, which I guess is a kind of psychological pain, but I don't think you'd be moving to Derry to feel humiliated, so, fine, whatever. You're right. You're not a masochist, but you are still fucked up."

Richie snorts. "Says the guy who married his mom."

"I did _not_ marry my—"

"If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck, and has the same hypochondriacal and anxious tendencies as your mother duck, then, yeah, Ed, you absolutely did."

Eddie goes quiet for a moment, chewing on the corner of his lip. For a moment, Richie's worried that he's gone too far (which is a new feeling for him—he's an asshole all the time and could usually care less about it) but the look on Eddie's face isn't pissed or angry or any other familiar shade of offended—just thoughtful. He's half-turned toward the passenger window, giving Richie a clear look at the stitched, still-healing scar from Bowers's knife; if Richie didn't know better (and if Ed smiled more), he could almost mistake it for a dimple. After a beat, Eddie lets out a slow exhale.

"Fuck, I did marry my mom, didn't I?"

Richie seesaws his hand back and forth, but in a way that means _yes_ more than _no_. Eddie's mouth goes crooked again. "But that's like, totally normal, right? Like, plenty of guys subconsciously end up with a woman who's sort of like their mom."

"Sort of?"

"Shut up."

Richie laughs a little. "Hey, man, it could be worse. On a scale of 'marrying your mom' where one is like, 'basic mommy issues' and ten is 'you are literally Oedipus,' you're—what, a four? Maybe a five, at worst. Five-and-a-half if you put a gun to my head."

"So you're saying I'm halfway to Oedipus?"

"At worst," Richie says, waving a hand. "You're probably closer to one-third Oedipus—like, sure, you marry your mom, but skip all the patricide and getting blinded."

Eddie lets out a laugh, sharp but not wholly humorless. "Shit, Rich, don't hold back on my account."

Face turned toward the road, Richie can't see the particulars of Eddie's expression, but there's a hint of a stung tone in his voice that's got him feeling more than a little shitty. "Sorry, man, I'm just fucking with you."

"It's alright, I'm used to you fucking with me." Eddie goes quiet, drumming his fingers against the armrest. Then, "Oedipus gets blinded, too? I thought he was just the guy who wanted to fuck his mom."

"No, no, no—he was trying _not_ to fuck his mom. He didn't know who she was when he married her, and then when he realizes, he gouges out his own eyes."

"Jesus."

"Right? I think his mom hangs herself, too, or maybe that's just in some versions of the myth."

Eddie pauses again, still drumming that absent rhythm against the leather. "What happens next?"

"What, in the story? I think he gets exiled, or maybe he banishes himself—I don't know, it's been a minute since sophomore English class—"

"No, dickhead, not in the play. What happens next for _us_. You, me, Bev, Mike, Ben, Bill—all of us."

Now it's Richie's turn to go quiet. "Fuck, I don't know. Go back home, I guess? Get back to our lives?"

"Just like that? After everything that happened?"

"You have another idea?"

"I—no. Maybe? I just—" Eddie breaks off, glances over at Richie for a moment before looking back towards the window. "You'll just laugh, if I say it."

"Are you gonna tell a joke? Because no offense, Ed, but even then my laughing isn't a guarantee." Richie shoots a smile in Eddie's direction, then lets it fade when he sees the half-thoughtful, half-nervous look on Ed's face. Fuck, even knowing Eddie as well as he does and he still always picks the wrong way to respond to the moment. "You can tell me, I promise I won't laugh."

Eddie raises an eyebrow at him.

"I swear," Richie says, raising his hands in surrender (well, one hand—he doesn't actually want to make Eddie anxious over his driving.) Eddie stares at him for a moment, but Richie keeps his expression neutral and patient, and after a beat, Eddie relents.

"I guess it's like—fuck, it feels like I've spent my whole life running from something and I didn't even know it. Like I've been on a treadmill with the speed turned up to ten and assumed that was how it felt to walk. Like, ever since I moved from Derry, something's been chasing me, and it's been taking all the energy and attention and fuck-knows-what-else in me to stay two steps ahead of it. And I've been so fucking worn out from _that_ , I've just coasted through every other part of my life—and the worst part is that I wasn't even aware I was doing it.

"That's how it felt, at least, but now it's like—I've just stopped. Something was chasing me, but now it's gone and I finally have a moment to catch my breath, and I'm only starting to realize how fucking _exhausting_ the whole thing was. Like I've spent twenty years breathing through a cramp that's cleared up and I'm only just realizing what it feels like when my lungs don't hurt. _That's_ what it's like. Now that I don't have to spend all my energy being tired and anxious and afraid, I feel like I'm awake for the first time in my whole fucking adult life. So what now? I go back to the life I was living before? The one where I was running on autopilot and looking over my shoulder? I mean, fuck that, right? Some part of Pennywise came with us when we left Derry—Stan is proof of that, if nothing else—but now it's been cut out of me like a fucking cancer and so why shouldn't I start over? Isn't it time for me to—I don't know—do it right this time? Live the life I want to have instead of the one I stumbled into?" Eddie laughs, a little exhausted, a little nervous. "Fuck, I don't know. Maybe I'm just being stupid."

"No, no," Richie says, quick. "It's—I know what you mean, man, really. All of it. The feeling of running from something and only noticing it now that you've stopped, that your life is something you stumbled into instead of choosing—fuck, I get all of that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Cool." Eddie pauses, glances over at Richie. "You too, then?"

Richie laughs a little. "Yeah. I'm pretty sure you just figured out what, like, ten years of therapists never could. Then again, I guess it helps when you can pinpoint the murder clown as the root of your psychological trauma instead of assuming it's internalized homophobia. Not that the internalized homophobia wasn't part of it, but, uh—"

"The murder clown explains a lot."

"The murder clown does fill in some blank spaces."

Eddie's quiet for a moment. Then, "Me too, for the record. In terms of the whole, uh, internalized homophobia-thing."

Richie nods, trying very hard to keep his expression neutral, like his heartrate hasn't just shifted into fifth gear, like his stomach hasn't just somersaulted into his throat. He swallows. "Kind of a bitch, right?"

Eddie lets out a half-laugh. "For sure. I mean, I didn't really figure it out until college, so. Saved having to deal with that minefield in Derry but—still rough."

There are maybe thirty questions that Richie wants to ask, but he settles on the one that feels the most neutral. "Does your wife know?"

Eddie exhales, humorless. "God, no. Are you kidding? She'd probably go full Freud and think it's because of some deep-rooted childhood trauma—you know, murder clown aside—or be convinced that I'm leaving her and suddenly become suspicious of every guy I've been in a twenty-foot radius with."

"Yikes."

"Right?"

A less neutral question. "Do you think you're gonna stay with her?"

Eddie's brow furrows, like he's turning into one of those trendy French bulldogs that's ninety-percent wrinkles. "I mean, I have to, don't I? She is my wife. There was a whole tasteful wedding where we stood in front of our friends and family—granted, mostly hers—and we said our vows and promised to stay together until the end. That all has to mean something, doesn't it?"

Richie is the one who started this conversation, but it occurs to him now that he'd desperately like for it to be over. Giving relationship advice to someone you're in love with is like, a cliche for how people are tormented in hell. Seventh circle, at least. "Fuck, man, I don't really know. I've never exactly done the whole, long-term relationship thing, let alone marriage."

"No?"

If it sounds like there's any curiosity in Eddie's voice, that's probably just wishful thinking, right? Jesus fuck, Rich, pull it together. "Nah, but I was never really looking for it either. Not that I was planning on looking for hook-ups in my fifties and sixties or whatever, but I guess I just never saw myself as being a serious commitment sort of guy." He rubs at his jaw, lets out another one of those humorless half-laughs. "Now it's my turn to sound like a fucking Hallmark card, but I just—don't think I ever pictured being able to love somebody like that, you know?"

Eddie frowns a little. "Yeah—or, no, not really." He breaks off, his foot still jittery against the floor mat. On anyone else, those nerves would put Richie on edge, but from Eddie, there's almost something soothing in the nostalgia of it, reminds him of the rattle of younger-Eddie's inhaler inside that goofy fucking fanny-pack he used to wear. Still, he doesn't miss the way Ed's brow furrows a little further. "I mean, I don't know if I love my wife like that. Fuck, I don't know if I love her at all, really." He swallows. "Maybe I did, once, or—hell, maybe I just got married because we'd been together long enough that everyone was expecting it."

God, Richie is so far out of his depth here. And the fuck is he supposed to do, exactly? Even if it's more clear as Ed keeps talking that the best thing for him would probably be a separation, or even a divorce, Richie sure as shit doesn't feel like he can be the one to give that advice. Not when it'd feel so soured by his own feelings, muddled up by the private thought that maybe a split between Eddie and his wife could mean something for—for Eddie and Richie.

Fuck, he's so fucking fucked.

Richie swallows, can see Eddie still looking at him in his periphery, waiting for Richie to chime in, but Richie keeps his focus very determinedly on the road ahead of them. "Honestly, man, I don't know what to tell you. If you want to stay with her, you should, but it's probably not fair to either of you if you're only staying because you feel like that's what you're supposed to do. I can't tell you if you love her or not, but while I don't have, like, a shitload of experience in that area, I'm pretty sure love is like—when you know, you know, right?" He feels like there must be a fucking billboard sign stapled to his forehead when he says that, _Richie Tozier loves Eddie Kaspbrak_. Thankfully, Eddie has turned to look out the window, nodding a little absently, apparently oblivious to—what wasn't exactly Richie's confession of love (but wasn't exactly _not_ that, either.)

"Yeah," Eddie says after a moment, shifting his attention back from the blurred trees out the window. "You're probably right. If you ask yourself if you're in love with someone and don't know the answer off the bat, that's probably not a great sign." He chews the edge of his thumb, then lets out a deep sigh. "Fuck, man. Maybe Pennywise should've just killed me—that probably would've been easier than telling my wife I want a separation-slash-divorce."

"Don't even joke," Richie says, sudden and more serious than he intends. Eddie glances over at him. "Sorry, I just—" Richie clears his throat, feels like a fucking idiot for reacting so strong, "—it just feels a little too soon after Stan, you know?"

Eddie winces. "Shit. Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

And it's not untrue, exactly—even if Richie hadn't really known or even remembered Stan in over two decades, they'd been friends once, shared the sort of fucked-up bond you only get from surviving a murder clown together, and Richie had found himself missing that seventh silhouette among them more than once in the past week—but he'd also be even more of a filthy liar than usual if he tried to say it was really Stan he'd been thinking of when he said it. Jesus, now he's fucking hiding behind his dead fucking friend rather than let Eddie think that Richie was worried about him—how much lower can he get? 

But Richie would feel worse about it if he weren't still having nightmares of the cavern, of Eddie getting impaled like a fucking cocktail onion and the blood turning Richie's hands slippery as he'd pressed down against the wound. Ed gone pale and weak-limbed as Richie had half-carried him up and out, too anxious with wondering whether he'd just heard Ed's heart stop to pay much attention to the house collapsing around them. For a moment, Richie feels a weird, unexpected burst of sympathy for Eddie's mom; sure, she'd been controlling and obsessive and fucking batshit, but Richie also spent too many agonizing moments thinking that Ed could die not to be a little understanding of someone who panicked about him being hit by a car or choking on Milk Duds or developing some hitherto-unknown lethal allergy to red dye 40 or whatever the fuck else. Weirder shit happened all the time, right? Not like Richie didn't know that for a fucking fact.

Which—fuck, that send him tumbling down a whole different anxiety-induced rabbit hole. Because what are the odds that Derry was home to the world's only piece of the—supernatural? Alien? Supernatural aliens? If giant shapeshifting hypnotic clown aliens exist, doesn't that open the door for—fuck, pick a combination of adjectives and nouns. Maybe not other Pennywises, but other _somethings_. Sharp-toothed and hungry, hunting from sewer drains or roadside rest stops or anywhere the shadows stretch a little long. Jesus, Richie thinks, scrubbing a hand over his face, he is way too fucking tired to try to wrap his head around the implications of _that_ . Already burned down to the fucking wick let alone trying to grapple with the idea that he might have to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder or jumping when he sees something shift out of the corner of his eye because he knows for a fucking _fact_ that what's in the dark is real and has teeth.

Between that new fear and his lingering anxiety-slash-guilt-slash-love over Eddie, Richie feels like a piece of taffy stretched thin enough to see through. All he wants to do is go home and get high and maybe soak in the bath long enough that all the worry and stress leeches clean out of him. But, goddammit, bathtubs bring him right back to _Stan_ , floating still while the water turned red from his slit-open wrists and the fear of Pennwyise choking through him like stage-four cancer. And Richie is so muddled in this fucking Gordian knot of his thoughts that he doesn't realize his hands have gone white-knuckled around the steering wheel until he hears Ed clear his throat, say, "You alright, Richie?"

"Yeah," Richie says, flexing his hands to work some of the stiffness from them. He rubs at the back of his neck, feeling like he should be ten years older with all the tension in his shoulders. "Just tired, you know? Ready to go home, put this whole thing behind me."

Eddie nods. "I get that." He drums his fingers against the armrest, face turned a little pensive. "Or—I don't know. Maybe not all of it, though."

Richie frowns. "Seriously?"

"Most of it, yeah—if I could set my memories of Pennywise and Bowers on fire, I would—but, I don't know. I don't want it to be like before, when we all just forgot everything, you know? Like, I don't want to lose you and Bev and Mike and Ben and Bill again. And, sure, most of the time in Derry, I was scared shitless, but I was also—fuck, I don't know—not _brave_ , exactly, but was there when I needed to be, and I don't think I want to forget that, either. That I didn't run when it was do or die or definitely die, even if I spent most of my life figuring that I would if the stakes were ever that high." He glances over at Richie for a moment, frowning a little. "Or maybe that's stupid. It's not like I didn't think about running, right? And probably would have if Bev hadn't told us we'd be dead if we did."

"Come on, man," Richie says. "Don't do that. You didn't run, even when you could have, and you knuckled through whatever bullshit Pennywise threw at you while you were getting your talisman—which, if it was anything like mine, probably meant that it scared you shitless—and that's not nothing, either. It's not stupid to want to hold onto that shit, or to recognize, in some weird, genuinely fucked-up way, that Derry made us who we are—even if it was less in the cheery, it-takes-a-village sense and more the fire-and-brimstone crucible sense. You showed up, and you kept showing up, even against a fucking face-eating clown, which definitely means that you can handle any other shit that life has to throw at you. I think it's fair not to want to let that go."

Eddie nods, but it's more to himself, a little thoughtful. Richie recognizes that sense of distance in Ed's eyes, is sympathetic to the miles of psychological shit that Ed is likely wading through—that all of them will be shaking out of their shoes for the months and years to come—so he doesn't push Ed for whatever's on his mind. Just reaches for the radio and tunes it to the first local station he can find, doing his best to focus through the static rather than trying to suss out which of the futures might be waiting for them.

—

It's mostly quiet the rest of the way back to New York, equal parts easy and nervous for Richie, ping-ponging between the comfort of having Eddie in the car with him now and spiraling into worst-case scenarios of the two of them parting ways later, falling out of touch in the rhythm of most childhood friendships. But Eddie's number is keyed into his phone, and after he's gotten Ed's bags out of the trunk—Eddie's shoulder still useless and swaddled up in white bandage like it's baby Jesus—Ed pulls him into a quick hug. It's brief but steady, Ed's good arm holding tight around Richie before he lets go, clearing his throat a little.

"Thanks for giving me a ride back," Eddie says, one hand restless on the handle of his bag. "And, you know, for everything else."

"Yeah, man," Richie says, back of his neck feeling a little warm. "Of course." This is the first time he and Eddie have really been facing each other since they got in the car, and looking at Ed now has him feeling flustered enough that he nearly scuffs his shoe against the sidewalk like he's still fucking twelve years old. "And feel free to stay in touch or whatever. Let me know if you want to get a beer or something, catch up about the shit in your life that's not murder clown-related."

Eddie laughs a little. "C'mon, I ended up in risk management. It's not exactly like there's a riveting story there—not like you, Mr. Netflix Special."

"Dude, whatever, Bill's definitely clearing bigger checks than me with his Hollywood money."

"Still, I'd like to hear about it," Eddie says, and there's an earnestness in his voice that's doing all sorts of funny bullshit to Richie's stomach. Eddie turns a little towards his house, a neat two-story thing that fits in well with the rest of this corner of suburbia, then stops. "Oh, fuck me."

Richie's brain short-circuits for a second, then catches up to the look on Eddie's face. "You okay?"

"I forgot about my shoulder—my wife's gonna fucking _flip_. Christ, you should've seen how panicked she got when she read an article about poisonous toilet spiders."

"Toilet spiders?"

"It was some bullshit email forward thing, but she refused to use any bathroom outside our house for, like, eight months." Eddie sighs. "I was so caught up in thinking about what I might say to her about taking a break that I didn't even think about it." Which—Richie is definitely not allowed to feel anything about _that_ right now. "Fuck. Well, I guess this first conversation back was always going to suck, even just dealing with the _where the hell have you been_ , let alone the rest of it. Christ."

"If it goes bad enough that you need a place to stay, I've got a guest room," Richie says before his brain can process what a potentially terrible idea that is.

"Really?"

"Yeah, turns out Netflix money is just enough to get a half-decent apartment in the city." Richie clears his throat a little, trying very hard not read too much into whatever expression is on Eddie's face. "No pressure or anything, though. Just in case shit goes bad and you don't want to stay on your couch or at a hotel, thought I'd offer."

"No, that'd be great. I mean, assuming this doesn't go well—which, knowing me is basically a certainty. But, yeah, depending on how she reacts, I might take you up on that." Eddie half-smiles and Richie digs his hands even deeper into the pockets of his jacket, pulls his shoulders even closer to his ears. "I, uh, guess I'll see you around?"

"For sure, man," Richie says, voice easy in a way that he sure as shit doesn't feel. "If not tonight, then some other time. The New York chapter of the Losers Club."

"We should get jackets, or bowling shirts." Eddie glances back up at the house, half-lit behind a set of tasteful curtains. He lets out a slow breath. "Fuck, I should probably get this over with, huh. Whatever happens, I'll text you with an update—sound good?"

"Yeah, whatever works for you." Richie's heels are rocking off the edge of the curb, but he can't quite bring himself to get back in the car yet. Can't shake the thought of the future where he drives off and Eddie goes into the house and has a heart-to-heart with his wife that ends with the two of them reconciling and then days go by and then weeks and the occasional texts die off and that's just—it. Like before Mike called them, but worse, because now Richie remembers exactly what he'd be losing. 

Eddie gives a wave over his shoulder as he heads up the walkway and Richie forces his feet to walk him back to the car, but he can't actually bring himself to pull away until he sees Eddie open the door and disappear inside the house. Tries very fucking hard not to think about whatever's going to happen with Ed and his wife next, whether it's a messy separation or an amicable reconciliation or whatever the fuck else. So long as it's a future that ends with Ed happy, that's really all Richie wants.

It's a slow, quiet drive back into the city from there, the radio turned low in the background and the car feeling very fucking empty. Mostly, Richie wants to go back to his apartment and drink inadvisable amounts of cheap scotch, but the idea of Eddie showing up and him being piss drunk sounds like an even worse idea than whatever else might happen. So he'll just have to knuckle through the next few hours, he supposes. Move aimlessly around his apartment and pretend he's not checking his phone every fifteen seconds waiting on word from Ed. Christ, maybe he really is a masochist.

Once he gets home, Richie does everything he can think of to distract himself and can't even try to pretend that it's working. He unpacks his suitcase from Derry and runs two loads of laundry to wash out the bloodstains. He takes a shower and spends twenty minutes standing there while the steam fogs up the mirror before he actually gets around to cleaning off. He orders takeout when he realizes he's fucking _starving_ and hopes that waiting for the food will keep him from focusing on waiting for Ed—which actually sort of works until the delivery arrives and he's eaten and then he's right back to square one. But that sets Richie to thinking about what happens if Ed _does_ show up and then he's switching gears to a whole new track of anxiety, wondering how long it's been since he changed the sheets on the guest bed and what if Eddie's allergic to his laundry detergent and shit are his extra set of towels clean? And anxiety sucks, but at least it's anxiety with enough direction to help him burn another hour as he gets the guest room ready. He's moved on to vacuuming the living room when his phone finally vibrates, and fuck if Richie doesn't nearly bust his shin on the coffee table trying to get it.

Eddie: _Just called a cab_.

Eddie: _Still okay if I come to yours_?

Richie texts back that it's fine and sends the address, feeling a little shaky and a little panicked as soon as he does. Is this a mistake? Should he have waited for Eddie before eating dinner? And can he maybe get a fucking grip before he spends the rest of the night with his palms sweating like a teenager with a crush? Maybe, probably, and definitely not, in that order.

Eddie texts when he's out front and Richie heads down to see him up. He's still got the same bag he packed for Derry at his side, and as Richie hoists it out of the back of the cab, Eddie says, "Don't worry, I'm not planning on moving in or anything. I just didn't get a chance to unpack it before the talking-slash-yelling started, and bringing it seemed easier than throwing something else together."

"Dude, it's fine. Stay as long as you need," Richie says as they get into the elevator.

"I can't—"

"You literally almost died a few days ago, and—not making assumptions, but just on the basis of you being here—your marriage might be falling apart, so, yeah, stay. Make yourself at home. What, are you worried about interrupting my busy evenings of getting high or drunk or both and falling asleep in front of the TV? Because I'm pretty sure I can rearrange my schedule."

Eddie snorts. "Thanks, man. I'm hoping whatever happens with my marriage won't take that long to sort out, but, seriously, thanks. I appreciate it."

"Relax, Ed, it's not like I'm offering you a kidney or something. You need a place to stay and I've got the room. It's what anyone would do, right?" 

When they get up to the apartment, Richie gives Ed the tour—which is mostly just showing him where the bathroom and his bedroom are—then gets Eddie set up with the freshly laundered guest towels and the wifi password on a Post-It and then stands there feeling like an idiot trying to remember what else hosts are supposed to offer. Hot towels? No, Rich, you fuckhead, that's just on airplanes. "Uh, you want something to drink? Water or beer or whatever is in the fridge or liquor cabinet?"

"I do, but I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to have any alcohol with these." Eddie pulls the bottle of painkillers from his pocket and rattles them briefly. "Water would be good, though."

Eddie follows him out to the kitchen and Richie gets him a glass (and then, after a moment's hesitation, another for himself because getting drunk while Eddie stays sober would probably be an even worse idea than most of his others) before they take up seats in the living room. It's only been a few hours since Richie saw Eddie last, but he already looks wearier, shoulders at downward slopes and the bags under his eyes dug in even deeper than usual. "So, what happened?"

Eddie laughs a little, sharp and humorless. "Fuck, man—Pennywise was worse, but not by much. As soon as I walked in, it was twenty questions about where I'd been and what had happened and holy shit did I have an infection or fucking _leprosy_ and was my shoulder about to fall off and—" Eddie waves a hand. "Fucking _endless_ , and talking at me like I don't know how to put my socks on, let alone like I'm her fucking husband, and I just couldn't help but think of all that shit you said in the car about how I'd married my mom. And then it's like I was twelve years old again with my mom lecturing me for fifteen minutes about the dangers of 'foot cancer' if your shoes are laced too tight or whatever the fuck and all the time that I wasted down at that stupid fucking pharmacy fulfilling an inhaler prescription for fucking _water_ and I just—didn't want to do it anymore. Kept thinking about what we'd done in Derry when we were younger and what we'd done just now, and how fucking nice it was to spend time with people who didn't second-guess every move I made, didn't treat me like I was a toddler, like I'd hurt myself if I wasn't kept in a baby-proofed room." Eddie takes a breath, sips at his water. "So I told her that I didn't think this was working, and that I wanted a separation, and she just _lost_ it. Started a whole different rant about me not being in my right mind and had a cult abducted me or something and did _that_ explain where I'd been for the past week and—just fucking on and on. Like that's the only way I'd think about leaving. Like we were so fucking happy before." Eddie sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. "Sorry, man. I'm sure you don't want to hear about all this."

Richie shakes his head. "No, dude, you're fine. Talk away. I've spent enough time in therapy to know how good it feels to unpack this shit when it's been weighing on you."

"Right? And, don't get me wrong, that whole conversation was fucking _miserable_ , but—I'm glad that it happened. It was like, as soon as I said that I wanted a separation, I realized it's probably something that I've been wanting for months, if not years, and that I'm so used to doubting myself and everything I do that it was like a breath of fresh air to be so _sure_ about something. And then I think about Derry, and that even though going back was like getting kicked in the dick by my childhood trauma, if we hadn't—fuck, I'd probably have lived the rest of my life doing more of the same, you know? Thinking that not being unhappy is the same as being happy.

"And I don't want that. I want—shit, you know how Bev and Ben were staring at each other before we left, all heart eyes and shit? I want _that_. Obviously not that exactly, because, you know, they're easily two of the most attractive people I've ever met and like, look at me—" Richie chokes a little on his water when Ed says that, because of course he already is, was already thinking that he likes Eddie's face better than anyone else he's ever met, but it's not like he can exactly say _that_ "—but I don't know if I've ever felt that happy to be with someone. Maybe the closest was back in that Chinese restaurant when we all first got to Derry, shooting the shit and remembering the good times—at least, before Stan and the fortune cookies from hell. But like, that moment of being happy with people who were also happy to be with me. Like being with you, too, even when you are being a dick." Eddie laughs a little. "Fuck, you wanna hear something funny? I'm pretty sure you're my best friend, and that's even counting the thirty years when we forgot each other."

Eddie looks up at Richie, and belatedly, Richie realizes that he's supposed to laugh, too. But it's not that funny to him, and the laugh that he lets out is plainly a little forced. Eddie tilts his head. "Dude, what, are you drunk already? I would've figured admitting something like that was like lobbing you a softball. What, no joke?"

"Don't tell your mom that I'm your best friend, or she might get jealous," Richie says, reflexive and a little flat. He clears his throat, looks down at his own untouched glass of water. Fuck, he wishes it were gin or scotch or both. "I don't know. I mean, I'm pretty sure you're my best friend, too."

"Yeah?"

Richie shrugs, trying to play it casual. "Yeah, man."

"Fuck, Rich," Ed says, a little joking, a little serious. "I didn't know you cared."

"I mean, I don't go around ranking my best friends on a weekly basis or whatever, but if I did, then—yeah. It'd be you, Ed." Jesus, is he _blushing_ as he says it? Fuck, he's so embarrassing. "You know, if that's not weird or whatever."

"Dude, you are more repressed than a fucking Mormon. I do not believe you actually go to therapy."

That earns a laugh from Richie. "Hey, it's not my fault I've got like, several suitcases worth of shit to unpack."

"I'll drink to that. Or, you know, I would." Ed's hand goes to his shoulder, and something twists in Richie's chest as he flashes back to the awful stretch of that moment, of Pennywise spearing Ed and tossing him across the cavern like a fucking ragdoll. Thinks of the other future where he gets to Ed's side to try to stem the bleeding and instead feels Ed's heartbeat give out under his hands. Richie swallows.

"Hey, just while we're being honest or whatever, I uh—I'm really glad that you didn't die, back in Derry."

"Right there with you."

Richie very badly wants to be drunk right now; at least then he maybe wouldn't feel so fucking nervous. "This is definitely another one of those dumb, Hallmark sentiments that you'll give me shit for later—and probably sounds stupid since, you know, I didn't remember who you were before like a week ago, but, uh—I don't think I know what I would've done, if you had died, Ed."

Eddie's got a half-smile on his face, like he's waiting for the punchline, but there isn't one (other than the obvious, the very laughable hope that Richie holds quiet and close that Eddie might feel the same way about him, if Richie ever found enough backbone to own up to it.) Slowly, the smile shifts on Eddie's face when he realizes the joke isn't coming, turns subtler, softer, a little thoughtful. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Richie says. And here's maybe the biggest fucking joke of all—that there's a moment then, when he's watching Eddie watching him, when he thinks maybe he _could_ say something. Could own up to loving Eddie Kaspbrak and actually picture a future where Eddie says it back. 

For a moment, Richie is almost brave enough to try—feels like he's back in front of the Very Scary door and is actually willing to open it—but either because there's no Pennywise behind him pushing him to make a decision, or because he remembers that Eddie is still married and only told his wife that he wanted a separation a few hours ago and has plenty of his own shit to sort through, Richie doesn't know. Probably a cocktail of both. So he swallows the thought down, along with the water in his glass, and takes comfort in the fact that the look on Eddie's face isn't judgmental or mocking at Richie's admission, but—not to get all Oprah about it—understanding. Curious, even, but maybe that's just wishful thinking on Richie's part. Whatever emotions are there, though, they feel promising. Fuck, maybe even _hopeful_. Like after they've both put back together some of the shit that Pennywise broke (or pulled back the curtain to see the broken pieces of things they hadn't even known needed fixing), that Richie could maybe tell Eddie the truth and Eddie might feel the same way. Maybe—but maybe isn't a no.

But, hell—a week ago, Richie would've said their chances of beating Pennywise were fucking none, and even when they were in the cavern, would've only bumped it up to a _maybe_ , and look how that turned out? When compared ot supernatural face-chomping aliens, the idea that Eddie Kaspbrak might love him back doesn't seem so far-fetched at all. See, this is the danger of spending time with folks like Mike and Ben—Richie's almost at risk of becoming an optimist.

From across the coffee table, Eddie smiles at him, and dammit if Richie can't help but grin back a little, too.


End file.
